It was just like the old days here on Saturday. Crazy D spent a few hours in the basement (his man cave…that’s as opposed to his ‘man hole’ warehouse space in Toronto) playing his guitar and in the evening, he and L’il Sis had friends over. Upstairs in my room, I could hear the triumphant shouts of glee. It was their rowdy teen parties all over again — but without the beer, raucous music and laughter, people carousing on the porch outside. It was almost, dare I say it, an old folks’ Saturday Night In. And what were they doing, you ask? They were having a Jenga tournament. They were eating homemade popcorn (with their snooty salt and nutritional yeast) and drinking sparkling water. Where have I failed?
Yes, my ‘kids’ have reached their late thirties, (practically middle-age) and their idea of Saturday night fun is a rousing board game or Jenga tournament at home. Or if they’re feeling really frisky, trolling the Humane Society website for dogs to adopt is a possibility. It’s their form of porn. But they’re always in bed by 11. And I no longer have to monitor the liquor supply. In fact, when Second Son came over for dinner the other night, I offered him, in cavalier fashion, a beer.
Crazy D corrected me. “We don’t have any beer, Mom. Haven’t had for weeks.”
“What? Are you kidding me? I know I bought some…we always have beer.”
“We finished it up ages go and I didn’t bother replacing it since we drink so little.”
OMG. My children are officially OLD!
Gill certainly wouldn’t disagree, because she has admitted to being old for years. Her arthritic limp proves her point. When she lived with me, we looked like two old ladies, residents of an Old Folks’ Home, dressed in identical oversized white terry cloth robes, shuffling slowly to the pool for our daily swim (therapeutic, you know). Trying to keep the arthritis at bay, the muscles working.
Now that Crazy D is in training mode for work and for his great bike race, he often crawls to his room, every muscle and joint in his body wracked with pain. I keep telling him that exercising six hours a day would kill an ox, but he doesn’t care. He spends almost as many hours at the osteopath and acupuncturist’s office as he does torturing himself and his muscles. His doctors are thrilled that he will be putting their children through college. The bonus is that he will already appreciate what being old means by the time he officially checks in as a senior. He’s getting a leap on the time and maintenance required just to stay alive.
I find that between thirty and forty, ‘the kids’ have indeed settled into a routine. L’il Sis proudly asserts that she would rather spend Saturday nights cuddling with The Pig and listening to ‘her stories’ on radio. Yes, I said RADIO! Or, when she’s really feeling sociable, she takes The Pig to a friend’s house where the resident cat( a hairless one that tops the list for the World’s Ugliest Cat but is somehow adorable), spends the evening licking the dog. Apparently the cat loves The Pig. The Pig isn’t talking.
I believe there is something wrong with the universe when I, the aged mother, am often out on a Saturday night while my kids play Jenga and spoon the pets. But I don’t judge.